Hallowed Ground (18 page)

Burned my ass that this gentle man had been used to hurt me. And yeah, it doubled the amount of guilt for my brusque attitude yesterday.

I snagged the bottle of Tylenol with codeine from my medicine cabinet and shook out two pills.

“Open up and swallow.”

“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line.”

I bit back a smile. Kell did have a sense of humor at the oddest times.

Martinez didn’t find it funny; his laser gaze seared a bald spot in the back of my head.

Kell’s lips parted. I popped the pills in his mouth and gave him a drink of water, dribbled most of it down his bloodied Grateful Dead T-shirt. I mopped him up and said, “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

As soon as his breathing deepened I fumbled for my cigarettes and headed for the kitchen.

Martinez followed a beat later but was smart enough not to speak.

With so many thoughts racing in my head I knew I had to focus on one thing or I’d go crazy.

Through all the harassment and pain inflicted on Kell on my behalf, I still wasn’t any closer to my main objective for this case: finding Chloe Black Dog.

Did it matter? To who? Me? So I could convince myself I knew what the hell I was doing in the PI business? Or did it matter to Rondelle? Harvey? Martinez? Was it naïve to imagine she was safe? Maybe Chloe was better off if I
didn’t
find her.

I smoked, staring out the ripped screen door. Weeds had popped up all over in my backyard again. I’d actually sprayed them this spring, more than once, at Mrs. Babbitt’s urging. Seemed no matter how hard I tried to fix something, make it better, or make it right, somehow I always screwed it up.

A cupboard door banged. I stubbed out my cigarette in an empty can of garbanzo beans.

Crossing to the sink, I pressed my butt against the counter and faced Martinez.

“Here.” He handed me a glass of tequila.

I wanted to refuse. Truth was, I
needed
that shot.

I downed it before I did something noble and changed my mind.

Martinez’s intense gaze focused on the spot where Reggie’s fist had tested the strength of my jaw. “You should take care of that.”

“I will.”

And just like that, I wanted Kevin.

If he were here, he’d take care of it for me. Sure, he’d gripe about my tough girl act, pretend it was a pain to patch me up yet again, all the while his steady hands and serene eyes would soothe me.

But he wasn’t here and Martinez wasn’t the coddling type, not that I would have accepted it even if he’d offered.

Would I?

Martinez said, “What was on that piece of paper Rondelle gave you?”

“More ideas of where Chloe might be,” I fibbed without an ounce of remorse.

“Had you planned on telling me?”

I tossed my head. Ouch. Damn, that hurt. “Of course. Things got a little hectic today, remember?”

His dark gaze made me feel like a bug under a microscope.

As usual, I bristled. “What?”

“Why didn’t you call me this morning after these guys approached you at your office?”

“Because I’m not in the habit of running to my clients for protection, Martinez.”

“Jesus, you are stubborn.”

“So I’m told.”

The refrigerator kicked on, filling the silence between us with white noise. Seemed we’d run out of things to say.

Martinez raked his fingers through his hair. Paced to the door. Circled my chrome dinette set.

Studied the lack of fine china in my antique oak buffet. Ended up in the exact same spot he’d started.

His nerves surprised me so I cut him a break.

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that searching for one little girl has caused all this?”

“Rondelle’s lies caused this, not Chloe.”

“You still want me to find her?”

“More than ever.”

“Do you think she’s safe?”

“I hope so.” His bootsteps were strangely quiet as he crossed the linoleum to stand in front of me.

I didn’t budge when Martinez tentatively lifted his hand toward my face, his eyes riveted to the bump swelling on my jawbone.

My heart thumped. I wanted his touch as much as I feared it.

At the last second, he dropped his hand.

“You’ve got my number, blondie. Call me.”

He slipped out the back door, and I was glad he was gone.

KELL SLEPT IN FITS AND STARTS.

He had been a much better patient. Then again, I’d kept shoving painkillers down his throat and he hadn’t stayed awake long enough to complain.

I sorted laundry. Washed sheets. Thought about making a pot roast. Was bored out of my skull by noon. Unfathomable, some women actually enjoyed this type of life. I sent a silent thanks to the feminist movement that had allowed me the choice.

TV sucked during the day. I could only schlep around in ratty sweats for so long. Much as I grumbled, I liked my job. Wearing nice clothes and makeup, conversing with real people instead of yelling at the idiots on the
Dr. Phil
show. Even filing was better than sitting around waiting for mold to reappear in the bathroom.

I smoked. I brooded. I called the sheriff to ask if Donovan’s condition had changed. Nope. Still critical. Evidently the doctors were leaving him in a drug-induced coma, in an effort to prevent permanent brain damage from his head injury. What if he woke up with amnesia?

This whole scenario had changed from a simple parental custody dispute to one involving attempted murder and assault.

What would Kevin do with this case? No brainer. Turn it over to the cops.

Martinez expected me to handle it.

I had this bizarre need to live up to the faith he had in me.

Also, I needed to handle this case to prove I wasn’t just wasting my time as an investigator.

Propped against the doorjamb, I watched Kell doze. Waking him seemed cruel, since he’d only just settled down.

I wrote a note, even signed my name with a happy face, and placed it on his chest.

Gun in my purse, I left quietly for the office.

In my absence, we’d had quite a few calls, crank ones included.

I’d come into Kevin’s employment fulltime after a case in which my bow had been used to kill a man. A horrible man who’d done unspeakable acts and had deserved to die. A man I’d been credited with killing in self-defense—a lie I maintained to protect the person who’d actually made the kill shot.

My name and picture had appeared in the local news, both in print and on TV. The notoriety disturbed me, especially the nickname I’d picked up, “Redneck Xena.” Eventually the media attention had died down.

The good aspect of the publicity was the agency had acquired new clients. The bad aspect?

Kevin hadn’t been around to help me deal with the extra business. Or the assumption from some crazies that I’d liked killing so much I planned on making it a sideline.

Every once in a while I’d get a proposal to off someone’s cheating spouse for a tidy sum of cash.

Those contacts were forwarded to the RCPD. I’d even received several offers of marriage. Some strange, strange people inhabit the world.

Two brisk knocks sounded on the outer door.

Martinez?

Why did my heart beat faster?

I opened the door. No such luck. Three men stared back at me. Two young, lean, wiry types sandwiched a sausage-shaped man. “Can I help you guys?”

“You Julie Collins?”

“Got it on the first try. Who are you?”

The pot-bellied one shifted away from the other two. “I’m Bud Linderman.”

My mouth made an “O” of surprise.

Not what I’d expected. Bud was in his early sixties. Thinning silver hair hung to his narrow shoulders, Elvis-like sideburns nearly reached the collar of his pearl snapped shirt. A bushy, gray mustache rode prominently below a crooked nose that’d been busted more than once.

He wore a dung-colored western cut suit with white stitching, white piping, and white cowboy boots. A silver bolo tie, in the shape of a cow skull inlaid with alabaster, and matching belt buckle completed his ensemble. All he needed was a piece of straw in his mouth and he’d fit right in with the cast from
Hee Haw
.

When he smiled, capped teeth shone like he was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.

“Can we come in?” he asked.

“Sure.” I stepped aside and let them in, but left the door open. Didn’t care if they thought I was paranoid. I was. With good reason.

“What can I do for you?”

Bud motioned to the chairs in the reception area and the guys flanking him plopped into the seats like well-trained heelers commanded to
sit
.

“I’d like to talk to you about a mutual friend.”

“Who?”

“Rondelle Eagle Tail.”

My expression stayed blank.

He exchanged a look with the gangly guy closest to him before he refocused on me. “Rondelle told me about your meeting with her Saturday night at Fat Bob’s.”

“Then you also know that I can’t tell you what we talked about.”

Frowning, he eyed the reception area. “Is there another place we can sit down and discuss this in private?”

“We’ve got nothing to discuss.”

“I disagree.”

My shrug said I didn’t care.

“Did you consider maybe I’m not interested in what you can tell me? But maybe you’d be interested in what I can tell you?”

Okay. I’ll admit he’d captured my curiosity.

“How about my office?”

Again, his smile was a bit too slick and a bit too quick for my liking. “After you,” he said, gallantly sweeping out his arm.

I settled in my chair and lit up while he not so subtly sized up the contents of my office. I let him.

Gave me time to figure out how play this angle.

His gaze wandered back to me. “Got a nice collection of local artists.”

“Thank you. But you’d didn’t pop in uninvited to admire my taste in artwork.”

My comment surprised him. He recovered quickly and drawled, “You’re a straight shooter, aren’t you? I like that.”

“Cut the ‘good old boy’ crap, Linderman. I’m not in the mood. What do you want?”

One silver eyebrow winged up in a parody of censure. “We’ll skip the pleasantries, then. I’m here because I’m worried about Rondelle.”

“Why?”

“Various reasons.”

I waited for him to expound on those reasons: her job with the Carluccis, Donovan’s shooting, Chloe’s abrupt absence from her life.

I inspected the tip of my cigarette and remembered what Donovan had said about Bud Linderman being a hard ass. Something reeked with this picture.

“Seems odd, that you’re so worried about a former employee. Especially one who’s now working for your competition.”

“Rondelle has always been more than just an employee; we’re practically family. She left my employ on good terms. The opportunity she was offered was too good to pass up.”

A canned speech if I’d ever heard one.

My focus honed back in on him. His gaze stayed steady. Had Rondelle told him the same

“I’m-a-ho” lie she’d told Harvey about her new job with the Carluccis?

“Was Rondelle’s position at The Golden Boot similar to the one she’d taken at Trader Pete’s?”

“Not even close. When she worked for me she was a cocktail waitress. Period.”

I exhaled. “Wasn’t she working the cage?”

“Come now, Ms. Collins,” he chided with false humor, “I thought you were a straight shooter.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what Rondelle was
really
doing upstairs in those private meeting rooms at Trader Pete’s.”

Bingo. He didn’t have the real skinny. “I’m not in the business of conjecture, Mr. Linderman.

What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

“I’m concerned about what Rondelle might have told
you
. I don’t know why she dragged you into this mess when I offered to help her”—he smiled tightly—“for free.”

“Well, you get what you pay for. What were you going to help her with?”

“With the mess she’s gotten into with the Carluccis.”

“Mess? Thought this was too good an opportunity for her to pass up?”

“Might’ve started out that way. But I know the real truth about them now.”

“Which is?”

“Big ambitions.”

“So?”

“Ambitions don’t seem like such a bad thing at first, do they?”

I blew smoke at him since he was blowing smoke at me. “Get to the fucking point or get out.”

“Guys like Carlucci start out low profile. Acting like they want to be part of the community.

Start out using local vendors. Sponsoring events. Hiring minorities. It’s all a big lie.” He huffed into his mustache. “Know why Big Joe Carlucci took an interest in Deadwood?”

I cocked my head. His opinion ought to be enlightening.

“He saw it as a laid-back hick town with huge potential. Before long they’ll own everything, the casinos, the banks, the resorts. If we allow it, our lives will change. We won’t be a quaint little western town with a notorious past, we’ll be like Vegas and Atlantic City, with mob problems galore and no future.”

“Unlike you, who only has the people of Deadwood’s best interests at heart.”

“See? Even you don’t believe it. No one wants to believe it; they think
I’m
being paranoid. But I know they’re breaking the law and thumbing their big Italian noses at us to get what they want.”